Gunshot Wounds and Penis Envy
by Juliedoo
Summary: "Of all things, I was ranting about penises when I got shot." After a flubbed up hit attempt, Gokudera is left to take care of Haru when she's released from the hospital, and we get a glimpse into their unconventional relationship.TYL One Shot.
1. Gunshot Wounds and Penis Envy

**A/N: So. My KHR muse has been poking me with a stick, and I felt like writing a GokuHaru oneshot after reading iExist's fantastic story _The Diary of Miura_. This is my first one shot, and my first canonxcanon, so I'd appreciate any feedback; I really want to know if I kept Gokudera and Haru IC. Oh, and this is somewhere in the TYL timeline. Even I don't know where. Enjoy. **

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><p>Of all things, I was talking—ranting—about penises when I got shot.<p>

Not that I'm a pervert, because I'm not. Honest. And very rarely do I deem genitalia to be an appropriate topic for polite conversation in the people swarmed outdoor cafe of a popular westernized bistro. I was just trying to blow off a little steam left over from my latest spat with Hayato, who, I'd finally come to realize, has such a snotty attitude because he probably suffers from some bizarre form of penis envy.

"I'm telling you, he's pissy because he's surrounded by so many testosterone junked up males all the time, and it's made him self conscious," I nodded sagely, stabbing my fork into the crisp lettuce of my autumn salad and kinda-sorta-maybe imagining it was Hayato's face. Only leafy. And green. "And he takes it out on me because I'm the nearest person without a dingaling who isn't dating that psycho Hibari—" Like Chrome. Yeah, I didn't see that one coming either. "—or engaged to his beloved _Juudaime-sama_."

I tried to mimic the worshipful whine he adopts when talking about Tsuna-kun, but I just sounded like I had strep throat or something.

The nondescript bodyguard in his nondescript black suit sporting a pair of nondescript sunglasses on his nondescript face grimaced in discomfort and shifted a little in his seat. Kyoko-chan, meanwhile, was laughing so hard her soup spoon fell out of her hand and hit the gritty pavement with a tin clatter. It was when she bent over to scoop it up that the bullet meant to bust her skull open like a dropped watermelon plowed into my chest.

Let me tell you something: getting shot sucks. Like, really.

At first I didn't know what happened. It felt like a bee had stung me right under my collarbone, and waves crashed dully in my ears, drowning out the sudden influx of glass shattering screams. I opened my mouth to ask what happened, and a thin stream of blood leaked over my lips, plopping down on the pristine white napkin folded at the corner of my plate, staining it like a dab of scarlet lipstick.

I slumped out of my chair and slapped face first into the concrete.

Everything sort of went black after that.

-oOo-

Ow.

My eyes felt crusty. I forced them open, and the world blurred to a hazy focus—like when you're drunk, and everything's that weird compromise between fuzzy and somewhat distinct—but I could make out the bland white ceiling. A monotonous beeping droned in the background, annoying as elevator music, and the sharp smell of antiseptic and bleach scorched a path of fire up my nostrils.

Hospital. Okay, then.

I must have made some sort of noise, or shifted a little, because suddenly a face was right next to mine, staring down at me anxiously.

Kyoko-chan. She looked like crap.

I really don't want to imagine how I look. Like death's scary inbred grandmother, or something. Except strung out, with greasy hair.

"Haru-chan," she gasped, eyes wet and red and rimmed with tired bags. "You're awake! I'll go get the doctor."

Her face disappeared.

I would've said something, or at least tried to, but a tube was shoved down my throat. I tasted plastic on my tongue.

A few minutes later, the sound of shoes squeaking on the tile floor joined the irritating beeping of whatever machine was hooked up to me, and another face, this time a strange, elderly man's, topped by a cap of gray peppered hair, loomed in my vision. He shined a pen light directly in my pupils, and I flinched away, glaring irritably.

"Miura-san, how good. You're finally awake," he said congenially, and vanished. I heard papers crinkling—he must be checking my chart. "You've been in the ICU for four days. Your condition was touch and go for a while, but you should make a full recovery after some rest and a bit of rehabilitation."

Umm. Yay. I'm not dead.

"You're quite lucky, though," he continued, professionally amiable. "The bullet narrowly missed your spine. A few inches to the right and you would've been paralyzed, if not killed."

Huh.

"However, it did nick your Brachial Plexus, and you underwent a small surgery to repair the nerve damage; but with physical therapy your left arm and shoulder should be back up to normal functioning capacity in no time."

What the _hahi_ is a Brachial Plexus?

"For now, we'll keep you on a morphine drip and monitor your vitals, but rest is the most important thing you need."

He blabbered on about some more things that I didn't understand and didn't care to listen to, then left me alone with Kyoko-chan. She sank into the leather padded chair next to my bed, and took my hand in hers. Her skin felt hot to the touch.

"Haru-chan...I'm so, _so _sorry." Her voice broke. She sucked in a damp breath. "This is all my fault. It was me they were after, because of my relationship with Tsuna. It was _me _they wanted...it should've been _me_!"

And she dissolved into loud, baying sobs.

I wish I could've sat up and hugged her, then smacked her for being so silly. For always taking things onto herself. Yeah, she's going to marry Tsuna-kun—fulfilling my childhood dream, now a memory we all laugh over at tipsy get togethers—but I wasn't exactly a clueless civilian. I was best friends with the future wife of the Vongola Decimo, knew all the guardians on a first name basis (except Hibari. Eek.) and hell, I even did the famiglia's annual _taxes_, for Kami's sake. I'd worked hand in hand with Irie Shoichi and Spanner to set up the family's impenetrable firewall, and had developed several unbreakable algorithms exclusive to the Vongola's intricate computer system alone. I was a visible target.

Since I couldn't speak to remind her of this, or tell her how much of a twit she was being, I settled for giving her hand a weak squeeze and letting my eyes soften when her startled, soggy gaze flashed up to meet mine. That seemed to suck all the energy out of me, though, because my lashes closed and didn't open again for a very long time.

The next time I woke up, I was alone in the spacious room with Hayato, who had his back to me, staring out the open blinds of the window into the glowing poster of the nighttime city. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his pin striped Armani suit, his shoulders slumped, and he let out a haggard sigh.

I banged my hand on the side bars caging in the bed to get his attention.

He stiffened and whipped around, pivoting on his heel and rushing to my side to hover uncertainly. "Woman?" His voice was gruff.

I rolled my eyes. Of course. I almost die, and he still can't force himself to call me by my name. Typical.

I pointed to the dumb tube lodged in my mouth and grunted.

He blinked, then looked around. Rooted through the drawers of the table squatted next to the various machines attached to me by a swarm of wires until he found a small memo pad, and plucked a silver pen from somewhere in his jacket. He handed them to me, and I struggled to sit up a little; he huffed, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'stubborn' and 'idiot', and pressed the nifty little button that elevated the back of the bed until I was marginally upright. I couldn't move my left arm, but I was a Righty, anyway, so it didn't really matter.

The pen was heavy, and my hand trembled a little, but I managed to scribble out a sloppy sentence.

**Why is there a tube in my throat? It's stupid. Take it out. **

And I underlined it for good measure.

Clover green eyes blinked as he read. Then he smacked his forehead, chuckling a little. "You must be alright if you're already bitching about something."

I frowned around the tube, grumpy and put out by the obvious lack of sympathy. The pen scratched into the page. **Don't pick on me, you meanie. I feel bad. **

That seemed to sober him up. His expression was the bastard lovechild of a scowl and the face I imagine you make when you're painfully constipated. "Obviously, you stupid woman. Getting shot isn't a walk in the park on a sunny day." His tone softened slightly. "Do you need more pain meds?"

I shook my head even as I started to write. **No, I want to talk to you. What happened? Is everyone alright? **

"Che. Everyone's fine. And it was those Medici bastards that ordered the hit; we took care of 'em. Juudaime and I handled the matter personally."

**Tsuna did? I bet, since they went after Kyoko-chan like that. Is she okay? She's not taking this well. **

Hayato snorted, raking a hand through his moon spun hair. "The way she's carrying on, you'd think _she _was the one who got clipped. But Juudaime's looking after her, so don't waist time worrying over something that trivial, idiot."

I decided to take the mature road and refuse to glare at him, but it was _hard. _**When are they letting me go home? **I wrote instead.

"How the hell should I know? I'm not your doctor."

Screw maturity. I threw the pen at him.

-oOo-

Three days later, I was released into Hayato's supervision.

I was still weak as a newborn kitten, and Kyoko-chan had to help me shower when she brought a change of clothes and my shampoo to the hospital. I ended up wearing a yellow sundress, since anything with sleeves would've been too awkward to fit around the cast on my arm, and Kyoko-chan blow-dried my hair for me. I was going home with Hayato since I wasn't fit enough to take care of myself yet, but didn't want to intrude on Tsuna-kun and Kyoko-chan, and he insisted that he was the only one capable of reigning in my _'fantastic bouts of air headedness'. _

Prick.

I was wheeled out of the hospital and shuffled into his sleek black car without much fanfare, though I did notice the stern faced Vongola grunts in casual clothing milling about the crowd; I only recognized them from the almost military precision of their movements. Even if Tsuna-kun and the others had "handled" the Medici situation, it looked like they were still paranoid. To be honest, so was I, and I didn't mind the extra security, for all the good it would do. After all, there'd been a bodyguard plopped between Kyoko-chan and I and he'd not been able to stop the sniper's bullet.

I dozed on the ride to Hayato's high rise apartment, snapping into consciousness only when he shook me awake and barked for me to get out of the car. Still doped up and loopier than an alcoholic after a week long binge, I had to lean against him as we filed into the elevator and climbed up to the top floor of the luxury building. I'd been to his apartment a couple of times before; it was snazzy. Pale bamboo flooring stretched out from the front door, and the walls were the soft gray of a dove's wing. Down a slender hallway just off the living room were the bathroom, the office, and the kitchen. I am in _love _with Hayato's kitchen. Black marble counter-tops, brand new chrome appliances, an island with a fully stocked wine bar, and a dainty little breakfast nook stuffed into the bay windows that peered out over the city. I'd totally live in his kitchen if I could, but we'd end up annoying the crap out of each other, then I'd try to stab him with a kitchen knife, and he'd kick me out or something. Besides, there's never anything in his fridge. The man lives on takeout.

He settled me on the black suede sectional sofa in front of the flat screen, draped a blanket over my shoulders, and left me to zone out. I napped for a while, vaguely hearing the murmur of the tv in my dreams, before the smell of something _delicious _and the throbbing pain in my shoulder dragged me unmercifully out of lala land. I blinked, yawning, and glanced around.

He'd perched himself on the other end of the long couch, silver hair in a low ponytail and thin reading glasses sliding down his nose as he banged away at the keyboard of his laptop.

"Hayato," I whined. He looked up, eyes narrowed. "What's that smell? I'm hungry. Get me something to eat."

"Che. I'm not your damn maid."

"But I'm a cripple. And _you _wanted to take care of me." I paused to yawn again. "Kyoko-chan would feed me."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, propping his computer on the nearest cushion and pushing off the sofa. He disappeared down the hallway for a minute or two and came back cradling a carton of steaming yakisoba from a nearby restaurant, a glass of tea, and the bottle with my pain pills rattling inside with every step he took.

"Ooh, gimme!" I reached for the food—my stomach was in the middle of trying to eat itself—only to wince and drop my hand when the small movement sent a lightning shock of pain from my shoulder and arm up into my neck.

"Don't move around so much, stupid," he hissed, dropping the yakisoba on the coffee table and dolling out two pills, then watching as I popped them and washed them down with a gulp of tea.

"Bite me," I grumbled. "I forgot."

"Yes, because it's so _normal _to forget about a gunshot wound," he snarked, scowling as he settled back into his seat.

I took an awkward hold of the chopsticks and poked at the fried noodles. "Sarcasm is a very unattractive quality in a person," I commented idly, plucking up some pork and onions and a mouthful of noodles and practically inhaling them. "It's no wonder you're single."

"And men everywhere are lining up to get into your pants," he huffed.

I frowned at him. "Hey," I said with my mouth full. "Yes. They are. Haru is awesome."

He gave an incredulous snort, and it was silent for a long while, the only sounds the _chew chew chew _of me finishing off the last of the food, the drone of voices mumbling out from some hyped up action movie on the flat screen, and the constant clacking of Hayato's keyboard.

I was just about to trip into sleep again when the typing suddenly paused, like an indrawn breath.

"Haru..."

My eyes snapped open, and I gazed stupidly at Hayato. He actually said my _name? _Wow. The end is nigh.

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you didn't die. Idiot woman."

I couldn't stop my lips from curving into a smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Hayato."

"Just duck next time," he added, in his usual nasty tone. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you leaching off me like an annoying little parasite."

"You know you love me."

"Who in their right mind would love _you? _You're ridiculous."

I threw the carton at his head.

Noodle really is a good look for him.


	2. Awkward Like Glue

Sexual tension is kind of like glue. Awkward, _awkward _glue.

Hayato and me? There's so much glue between us, it's retarded.

...and that doesn't even make any sense.

My disobedient hormones have me so discombobulated I've somehow equated sex with liquid adhesive, nevermind the fact that I'm thinking about doing the dirty in the first place. With _Squid Head_, no less! Gah. I don't know if I should sprint to the nearest psychiatrist and beg them to _fix me _because obviously my brain is broken and I've gone ten different kinds of insane, or if I should just tackle the stupid sexy man to the ground and rape him.

The fact that I'm still bunking at his place like some sort of driftwood hobo doesn't help matters, especially since I keep walking in on him in the middle of a shower. The first time was an accident, I swear! The next three times are totally his fault, because he's an adult and should know how to lock a friggin' door since I obviously can't control myself. I'm a peeper. I've had a glimpse of Hayato's naughty bits and now I can't stop thinking about him. And that whole little theory I had about penis envy? I can safely scrap that; I mean _really_. He has NOTHING to be insecure about, he's just a bastard and ohmygodI'mthinkingaboutitagain! Bad Haru, badbadbad!

Ahem.

But all that's neither here nor there. I could accept the fact that I, Miura Haru, am a dirty, dirty pervert with graceful aplomb if it wasn't Hayato that I'm wigging out over. Because, come on. He's _Gokudera,_ Tsuna's man bitch and my my long time bicker buddy. It's just weird. Not as weird as if I'd suddenly developed the urge to merge with someone like Ryohei, or what have you, but still. He's also my kind-of-sort-of-friend, and I don't want to shift our relationship into a place it can't recover from if for some reason we do get together and it doesn't work out.

Because we could get together; it's not all just me. That's what makes this so hard.

The lingering glances, eyes greener than spring grass. The electric brush of fingertips as we reach for the remote at the same time and the puff of his breath against my neck as he sleeps, tipped against my shoulder on the couch, worn out from a day of nefarious mafia stuff, or whatever it is he does besides henpeck Tsuna to hell and back while wearing a spiffy suit.

Platonic Purgatory. We're trapped in it. Toeing the edge of a jagged cliff, knowing that if we step any further we'll fall to our deaths, but the adrenaline pumping thrill of peering over, of knowing that we _could _fall, is driving us to distraction.

And good God, I'm melodramatic. Oh, screw it—my life's pretty much a soap opera anyway, except without all the copious nudity and steamy affairs and what have you.

...and we're back to sex again. Damn you, Hayato! Why can't you be fugly? Why couldn't you have just been born with a pug face, or really bad B.O.? This is all your fault.

"What are you muttering about, woman?"

"You!" I twitched and toppled off the window seat, hitting the floor with a thud. "Damn you! Damn you and your genetics!"

He blinked at me from the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a water bottle with a towel draped around his neck like a limp white snake. He was wearing sweats and a wife beater, with his hair scraped back into a messy pony tail, glistening with beads of sweat from his workout.

O.o

"Why are you making that face?" he grunted, striding forward. "You look constipated."

I managed to drag my eyes away from the way his shirt was plastered very interestingly to his chest and remembered to close my mouth. He was standing over me, staring down at me with a vaguely irritated expression. "What's the matter with you?" His brow furrowed. "And get off the damn floor, I don't want it to catch your ugly."

And suddenly I was lunging forward and pinching his nipple.

"Oww, dammit!"

"Ugly?" I snarled, dishing out the worst purple nurple in the history of nipple abuse. "Who's ugly? I want to claw my eyes out every time I see you! You should just jump in front of a bus! I feel sorry for Tsuna, having such an ugly subordinate! Everyone probably laughs at him behind his back because of you, _ha ha ha, look at him and his gross Storm Guardian. Eww!_"

"You leave Juudaime out of this, devil hag!"

He wrestled out of my grip and twisted my arm behind my back (carefully, oh so careful not to hurt me, not to exert too much pressure) and pinned me to the ground. He stilled my vicious squirming with his own body (whipcord lean, the ridges of his abdomen settling against the soft swell of my belly, my breasts crushed against his chest, pelvic bone to pelvic bone, legs tangled) and avoided my chomping teeth with the ease of practice.

"Stop, Haru! _Ouch! _Quit it, woman!" he panted above me, jade glare meeting my own mulish scowl.

Suddenly, he stilled. The strangest expression crossed his face—give me a thousand years, and I wouldn't have been able to decipher it. In the sudden quiet, in between our gasps of desperate breath, air sucked into starving lungs, I realized that he was on top of me. On me. And all the blood in my body rushed to my face; I lit up like a traffic light, redder than a ripe tomato.

I swallowed. His eyes darted to my throat, back to mine, to my lips, and stayed there.

Oh, boy. Oh, jeez.

I jerked forward and kissed him. Lips and teeth and months of bottled up frustration. He kissed me back. Tasted of desperation and passion and anger and something I didn't even know the name of. We tried to swallow each others' faces: my hands were suddenly digging into his hair, pulling it free of its tie, nails scraping against his scalp, while his palms clamped around my hips and ran in a scalding path up my stomach before curving around my back and settling between my shoulder blades.

There were cliches. Butterflies. Fireworks. My heart tried to pound its way out of my breastplate and jump inside his chest.

Eventually, we surfaced for air.

The silence was thick and poignant, perforated by shallow breaths.

Then I took a hammer to it. "I was right. It really is like glue," I said, dazed and elated and staring up at Hayato with the adoration a five year old bestows upon a chocolate ice cream cone.

"...What?"

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><p><strong>AN: **So, I had a random KHR inspiration vomit after reading the newest chapter. And just sayin'? Damn, but Hibari is FINE. Yes, I am lusting after a fictional character; I'm such a nerd. A closet nerd-they'll never catch me *curls mustache*.

So. I love these two-they play off each other so well. I hope I didn't butcher their characters, but this was just for fun. I'd love to hear your guys' thoughts on this, though. Peace out, and Happy New Year! n_n


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